


Whimsy McRelish and the Buried Treasure

by china_shop



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Competition, F/F, Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 15:29:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She stuffed the map into her pocket, propelled forward not just by the treasure, but the wager, the stakes. She could not let Whimsy McRelish beat her, not this time, not again!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whimsy McRelish and the Buried Treasure

**Author's Note:**

> For Picfor1000 2016.
> 
> Thanks to Cyphomandra for beta.

Just over the next ridge. Max re-checked the map and the angle of the morning sun, squinting as sweat stung her eyes. She wiped her face and looked around at the thick, lustrous vegetation interspersed with sharp rocks. An orchestra of insects competed with hooting, shrieking monkeys in the distance. There was no chance McRelish could have beaten her; she’d still be at the resort, eating her low-fat breakfast and deciding which camo outfit to wear. 

Max smirked, took a swig from her canteen and started up the ridge, grabbing at vines to help climb the steep path. Nearly there! 

Her foot slipped, and she landed on a jag of rock, tearing her pants and grazing her thigh. That would leave a bruise. She brushed at it impatiently, staggered upright and battled on. Ten minutes and a couple more falls later, she gained the ridgeline and was about to descend and veer west, as per the map, when she heard the far-off thwack of helicopter blades. 

“Fuck!” She hurtled down the slope toward her goal, slipping, sliding and cursing under her breath. Of course McRelish had come by chopper! She’d probably planned to all along! It wasn’t technically against the rules of their wager (they’d been too drunk to establish more than the basics), but it went against the spirit. Which meant Max should’ve seen it coming a mile off.

A tree root tripped her, and her GPS flew out of her hand into the undergrowth, giving her no choice but to dive after it. She scrambled in the leaves a good three minutes before her hand closed around the plastic casing, and stood up, breathless but triumphant, only to see McRelish descending a rope ladder that swung from the belly of the hovering chopper, a mere fifty yards away.

 _Less haste, more speed,_ Max’s mother always said. Max forced herself to regroup. She crouched down, smoothed the crumpled map and consulted the GPS. The treasure was located between her and McRelish, but twenty yards to the west. McRelish probably hadn’t seen her. Max just needed to slip in before McRelish found her bearings.

She stuffed the map into her pocket, propelled forward not just by the treasure, but the wager, the stakes. She could not let Whimsy McRelish beat her, not this time, not again!

Her thigh ached, bug bites on her wrists and neck itched, but she marched on, ducking branches, vaulting rocks, too intent on her prize to take pleasure in the race. 

She was fifteen yards off and closing when she heard a cry.

“Oh, a snake! Max, are you there?” Whimsy’s hoarse panic echoed around the valley. “Max! You’ve got to save—ah!”

Max stopped dead. Nine to one, this was a ruse to distract her, but she had to consider the other ten percent. Whimsy was deathly afraid of snakes.

Max ground her teeth in frustration, but she had no choice. She drew her knife and moved stealthily toward the sounds of distress.

It was bitter but no surprise to discover a recorder hanging from a tree, bound to a box of Belgian chocolates and a note: “Sorry, babe!” in Whimsy’s elegant handwriting. 

Max swore anyway. “Should’ve known you’d cheat,” she called out. “You’re the most devious minx I ever met.”

“I take pride in that distinction,” shouted Whimsy from up ahead.

“I’ve no doubt you do.” Max scowled. She hated to lose. 

She burst into a clearing to find a dark stream flowing, silent and swift, and Whimsy standing with a shovel, her pristine backpack propped against a small mossy cairn.

Max dropped her own mud-caked bag and measured the distance between them.

Whimsy propped the shovel on her shoulder like a parade soldier with a rifle. A teasing smile played on her lips. “Admit it. I beat you.”

“I’ll admit you cheated every step of the way.”

Whimsy laughed. “How can I cheat when we never set any rules?”

Sweat gleamed on her clavicle, and Max involuntarily licked her lips.

Whimsy took a step back. “You’re living up to your name. Maxine Predator.”

“And you’re living up to yours.” Max advanced on her, ogling every inch of her body, every long taut muscle that was braced for Max’s next move. And yes, Max could sweep Whimsy up and truss her, hitch her to a tree and dig up the treasure at her leisure, but Max didn’t play dirty. Not that kind of dirty.

She smiled. “You look like you just stepped out of a Versace outdoor lifestyle catalogue.”

“Oh please. Vera Wang.”

“I defer to your expertise.” Max prowled around, admiring Whimsy’s catsuit. “Spade by Prada?”

And then, striking like a snake, she reached past Whimsy, snatched her thousand-dollar backpack and dangled it over the stream. 

Whimsy gasped. “I got here first.”

“You got to the site first. Latitude and longitude. But treasure hunts take place in three dimensions, and you still haven’t dug down.”

“Sore loser.” Whimsy’s poise was wavering. She put a hand on her hip. “My iPhone’s in there. My credit cards, diary.”

“Well, come and save them.” Max shook the bag at arm’s length.

Whimsy lowered her shovel and started digging. “I’m going to get that treasure.”

“I’ll drop it, I swear.” Max stepped closer to the stream, but her foot slipped, and she teetered on the muddy slope and, after an eternity of gravitational indecision, tumbled into the stream with a splash.

It wasn’t deep, but the current was strong, and it took time to extricate herself. She clambered out, soaked in body, bruised in dignity, and checked her pockets and Whimsy’s backpack (all of its contents dry-bagged). By then, Whimsy’s spade was hitting metal. 

Max sat on the ground, dripping and defeated. “I’m holding your bag hostage,” she said, a final futile gambit.

Whimsy hefted the metal casket out of the hole and paused. “Darling, we have a deal,” she purred. “I beat you to the treasure; now you have to introduce me to your parents.”


End file.
